Page 4 of Haunted Crowns
Eris’s knuckles whitened, but before she could move, Stephan stepped forward, his voice sharp.
“Father, don’t talk about Eris like that!”
Both kings turned.
"This isn’t your concern," Raphael snapped.
"It is," Stephan growled, his jaw tight. “Eris is stronger than you want to admit. You don’t get to call her broken just because you don’t understand her."
Something in her stilled. Heat rose behind her eyes, not from shame, but from the ache of being seen. He hadn’t just defended her. He’d believed in her, out loud, in front of the very people who never had.
Raphael’s mouth twisted.
“You have no idea what you’re defending. Stay out of this. You’re not the one making decisions.”
"Neither are you," Yori said, voice cold. "My decision is final. She will go to the Astareth Summit. Make peace with it, Raphael. I’m not changing my mind."
For a moment, silence held. Then Raphael’s lips pressed into a thin, furious line. “Very well.” He turned to Stephan. “We leave now.”
Stephan’s jaw clenched. Leaving her again felt unbearable. He turned to Eris. The firelight behind her caught the shimmer in her eyes. He stepped close, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her.
“Listen to me. You won’t be alone. I’ll be at Astareth too.”
“I'm not afraid, Stephan,” she said, voice soft but steady.
He gently took her arm, guiding her just beyond the reach of watching eyes and listening ears. “I know,” he said, brushing her cheek. “Remember what I said. Things will change soon. For both of us. I’ll protect what matters. And you most of all.”
She nodded, quiet but sure. He gave her a small, crooked smile, one only she ever saw. Then he turned to leave.
Her hand caught his sleeve.
“Stephan…” Her voice was low. “They’re all whispering war’s coming.” Her fingers tightened. “Please… be careful.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid. His lips parted, as if about to speak something final, something that might change everything. But footsteps echoed down the corridor. The car was waiting. Time, as always, was noton their side. So he leaned in and kissed her forehead softly, like a vow.
“I will…” A breath. “And I’ll write to you. Every week.”
She arched a brow. “With actual ink, Stephan. None of that lazy comm-orb nonsense.”
He smirked. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“I mean it,” she said, poking his chest. “I want pages. Paragraphs. Scandalous metaphors.”
He leaned closer, voice low. “Scandalous, huh?”
She tilted her head, smug. “You always did write like a tragic poet with a sword kink.”
A laugh rumbled out of him. “You still keep them?”
“Behind the arbor,” she said, feigning nonchalance. “Don’t act surprised. I’m sentimental, not subtle.”
“I know.” His fingers swept a strand of hair from her brow like she was something sacred. Then, with a crooked smile: “If my father saw us right now, he’d call it treason.”
She smiled through the ache. “Let him.”
He stepped back, and for one suspended heartbeat, they simply looked at each other. Then he turned, the Dragov crest on his coat catching the light as he disappeared into the hall.
Her pulse thudded where his fingers had just brushed her skin, a reminder of what warmth felt like, and how cold it felt when he was gone. The silence that followed was worse than their goodbye.
